


I Will Become Yours And You Will Become Mine

by MacPherson



Series: I Choose You [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Academic Stress, Accidentally turned into a Combeferre character study, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Popping important questions, You know what I mean, not that i'm complaining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 05:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15308949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacPherson/pseuds/MacPherson
Summary: Combeferre finishes his Ph.D.Courfeyrac has questions. Well, one in particular.Sequel toLifelong Love Letter





	I Will Become Yours And You Will Become Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eirenical (chibi1723)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi1723/gifts).



> This is a sequel to [Lifelong Love Letter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2525651), so things will probably make more sense if you read that first but it's not essential.

This is it.

Courfeyrac is doing the thing. _This week_.

He's fantasized about proposing for as long as he can remember. For most of his life, the person he was proposing to was a blurry face, their identity inconsequential to the main point of the fantasy, which was of course Courfeyrac’s heart-stoppingly romantic proposal. Whoever they were, they would of course say yes.

Courfeyrac really should have realized he was in love with Combeferre when he started seeing Combeferre’s face in the proposal dreams, a full five years before they actually got together.

And of course now that Courfeyrac knows it will be Combeferre he'll be proposing to, all of his flash mob ideas have to go out the window.

Combeferre hates flash mobs. He doesn't think they should be banned or anything, and he knows that Courfeyrac loves them--they've spent hours discussing it over many years--but Courfeyrac knows that Combeferre is deeply uncomfortable being the center of attention unless he's teaching a class. He would put on a good face, but a public proposal with dozens of dancing strangers is just not the best choice.

Courf is going to be asking Ferre to commit to spending the rest of their lives together. The least he can do is ask in a way that will be meaningful to the person he's asking.

The sound of their apartment door closing jolts Courfeyrac from his planning--well, not so much “planning” as “staring at the ring and hoping for inspiration.” He snaps the ring box shut, sticks it in his pocket, and goes to meet Combeferre in the hallway.

“Hey babe. Long day?”

Combeferre offers him a small smile and a weary nod.

“Hi. And yes. I never thought I'd say this, but I hate the library.” He lets out a long sigh.

It's almost ten pm, and Courfeyrac is willing to bet a substantial amount of money that Combeferre hasn't eaten more than a granola bar and maybe a few pieces of fruit since at least lunchtime.

Courfeyrac opens his arms, and Combeferre steps into his embrace, leaning his forehead against Courf’s.

He loves this. He loves that he is the one that Combeferre--strong, logical, consistent, generous, dependable, kind Combeferre--leans on, both physically and emotionally.

“Come on. I made you dinner.”

“You didn't have to do that.”

He takes Ferre’s hand and gently pulls him into the kitchen, guiding him into a chair.

“Strictly speaking, you're right, I didn't. But it was the right thing to do, and it's important to me to take care of you, so I am.”

“You are the best, and I love you.”

“I know. Now eat.”

Combeferre does. His shoulders are tense, his eyelids droop, his entire body seems to sag.

It causes Courfeyrac physical pain to see him this exhausted.

There is one thing standing between Combeferre and his Ph.D: defending his dissertation.

It's scheduled for the day after tomorrow.

This is what he's been working on for most of the last decade. He's taken all the classes, he's done his big research project. He has spent the last year writing it. He handed in the final draft a month ago.

The hard work is over. The defense is all but a formality, a rite of passage.

But Combeferre is Combeferre, and he has spent countless hours preparing for it.

Courfeyrac has watched him struggle with all of it. Watched him plan it all out, agonizing over his outline, painstakingly executing every step in his research, analyzing all his data in SPSS. Courfeyrac has watched the expectations weigh on him.

Not many people look deeper than the uber-scholar persona Combeferre presents to the world. Courfeyrac prides himself on being one of those people. Oh, Combeferre is a nerd. Unquestionably. And proudly. But it's a lot to handle, and the expectations other people have for his academic perfection, and the expectations he has for the impact his work will have, weigh on him. Heavily. Combeferre doesn't let many people see that vulnerability.

Combeferre has always been Courfeyrac’s rock. Since they were in grade school, Courf has leaned on Combeferre, vented to him, depended on him. And as Combeferre slogged his way towards his Ph.D, Courfeyrac was determined to be that support for him.

It has been so frustrating. All Courfeyrac could do was be there for Combeferre, make sure he ate, and showered, and got something resembling a healthy amount of sleep.

So Courfeyrac literally grabs the dishes out of Combeferre’s hands when he attempts to take them to the sink to wash them when he's finished eating.

Combeferre puts up a good-natured, if extremely half-hearted, protest when Courfeyrac marches him to the bathroom and prepares his toothbrush for him.

And the next day, when Courfeyrac texts Combeferre every two hours, asking him if he's eating, and staying hydrated, and if he's come into contact with fresh air and direct sunlight yet, Combeferre dutifully texts back.

* * *

Courfeyrac glances at the clock on the bedside table. He's not surprised he woke up early, but _how_ early is noteworthy.

He rolls over, determined not to wake Combeferre on this of all days, only to discover that his caution is unnecessary.

Combeferre is lying on his back, hands woven together behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

There have been very few times over the course of Courfeyrac’s life--and even fewer in his friendship and relationship with Combeferre--when he has genuinely had no idea what to say.

And even when he struggles to find the exact words, he usually has some idea of the approach he wants to take, what tone to aim for.

But this morning… nothing.

Vague, reassuring platitudes mean nothing to Combeferre.

He also really, really doesn't want to encourage his super-analytical perfectionist streak right now.

He lets a few seconds tick by, weighing his options.

Combeferre sighs.

“Okay.” Courfeyrac says, jolted out of his trance. “Would it be more helpful for you to not do anything, or do you want to try to distract yourself?”

“Good morning to you, too.” Combeferre responds with a soft smile.

“Sorry. It's just… it's a big day for you today, and I want to support you, and--”

“You're doing great,” This statement is accompanied by a kiss to Courfeyrac's cheek as Combeferre climbs out of bed.

“Just tell me what will help, and I'll do it.”

Courfeyrac is sitting at the edge of their bed, and Combeferre comes and stands right in front of him, running his fingers through Courf’s curls.

“Number one, check the coffee maker.”

(Their programmable, auto-start coffee maker is the best investment they've ever made. Combeferre, ever practical, likes to check that it's actually started before he goes through the rest of his morning routine.)

“Number two, meet me in the shower.”

Seeing Courfeyrac's wide-eyed surprise, Combeferre just laughs.

“You want me nice and relaxed for the defense, right? That is something you can help with, if you'd like.”

“ _If I’d like_ ,” Courfeyrac mutters as he shuffles to the kitchen. “You're absurd.”

The coffee maker is generating a steady drip that is borderline hypnotic, and Courfeyrac stares at it.

The sound of the spray of water hitting the shower curtain and wall tiles jolts Courfeyrac from his reverie, and he begins to sprint to the bathroom, before realizing that breaking his neck on today of all days would be bad, and so he slows to a dignified power walk.

* * *

All too soon by Courfeyrac’s measurement, Combeferre is preparing to head out the door.

“Are you sure you have everything you need?” He asks Combeferre, who is double-checking the contents of his briefcase.

“Yes. I packed it last night.”

“Of course you did.”

“Okay. I have everything, and I'm leaving now.”

_Breathe, Courfeyrac, breathe._

“Right. Okay. I'll see you in a few hours. Good luck, not that you need it.”

“Everything helps,” Combeferre says, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Courfeyrac’s mouth.

And then he’s gone.

Courfeyrac isn't going to work today, but he does have an hour or so before it's time to leave for Combeferre's defense. He tries to do some reading for an upcoming case, just to make productive use of the time, but he can't get past the opening sentence.

He has never been this nervous. Yes, he was absolutely terrified before the two biggest exams of his own academic career--the LSAT before law school, and the bar exam after it--but he had control over those. There is absolutely nothing he can do to help Combeferre, and helplessness is Courfeyrac’s least favorite feeling. And he has a lot of feelings to choose from.

So he paces around the apartment once or twice or several dozen times, and because the public transportation in this city is notoriously unpredictable, he decides to leave early.

He told Combeferre he'd be there half an hour early. He's fifteen minutes early for that.

The small lecture hall chosen for the defense isn't even open to the audience yet. So Courfeyrac paces in this hallway, just as he'd paced in the apartment, and watches the minutes tick past on a clock on the wall.

Combeferre’s advisor, Dr Young, emerges from the lecture hall to open it up. She greets Courfeyrac warmly as he files in. Combeferre is standing a few paces behind her. He has his Serious Academic Face on, so Courfeyrac tamps down the (ever-present) urge to embrace him, and gently squeezes his hand as he passes by.

There are half a dozen stern academics in the front row, all with piles of paperwork in front of them. These six people, the committee, hold Combeferre’s professional fate in their hands.

Courfeyrac chooses a seat in the middle of the second row, and glares at the backs of their heads.

_Combeferre is brilliant_ , he thinks in their direction. _And someday soon, when he is a leader in this field, you will brag to your colleagues that you were on his dissertation committee._

Enjolras drops into the seat next to him, and lays a reassuring hand on his arm. “How are you doing?”

“Logically, I know this is all but a mere formality, and I know that everything will be fine, because Ferre is brilliant and incredibly well-prepared, but I am still so nervous I could hurl.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Are you sure it's okay to leave the office? That we’re all here instead of working?”

Enjolras’ expression tells Courfeyrac that yes, there is such a thing as a stupid question.

“I mean, how very dare you even think about work right now, when your boyfriend--he is still your boyfriend, right? I'm assuming I would have heard if you two had leveled up to fiancés?”

“Yes you would have heard. I'm not asking until after this is over. I didn’t want to distract him.”

Courfeyrac feels a hand on his shoulder, and turns to see Feuilly taking the chair behind him. He also recognizes several of Combeferre’s classmates that he's met over the years.

Enjolras glances at the clock above the projector screen and lets out a soft whistle. “Almost time. Or is this like the movies, and we’ll have to sit through fifteen minutes of Combeferre's classmates giving previews of their own defenses before we get to see what we came for?”

Courfeyrac grins. “Pretty sure we go straight to the main event.”

“Good morning everyone,” Dr Young has stepped to the front of the lecture hall, and the murmuring dies out.

She describes the format of the defense--how long Combeferre’s presentation will be, when and how the committee will ask him questions. She introduces the members of the committee, and then Combeferre, and then he's beginning.

To almost anyone else, Combeferre would seem completely at ease as he begins.

But Courfeyrac isn't anyone else, and he sees Combeferre’s tells.

The way his head tilts ever so slightly to the left every time he introduces a new idea.

He has a remote to control his slides, so he doesn't need the stand behind the podium, but he is, so as to keep his hands out of view until they're less shaky.

(This is why they can't play poker against each other anymore. Except for strip poker, because they both want to lose at that as quickly as possible.)

Courf doesn't dare glance at the clock, because he wants to give his full attention to Combeferre’s presentation, but by his estimation, it takes approximately six and a half minutes for Combeferre to settle in. His shoulders loosen, his breathing evens out.

Courfeyrac slowly lets out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and gradually releases his death grip on the arm rests of his chair.

While it's true that Courfeyrac is hardly unbiased when it comes to Combeferre, he's also an experienced lawyer who knows a well-constructed and well-argued presentation when he sees one.

He's familiar with most of what Combeferre is presenting, because Ferre talked about it with him while he was running his research, and over the months it took to write the damn dissertation. As he listens to Combeferre present it now, he thinks back to all those conversations.

_“Education is supposed to be this great equalizer, Courfeyrac, but it's not. It's not. How on earth is it possible for a five year old kid, who wakes up every morning in cold, chronically underfunded and mismanaged public housing filled with lead paint and asbestos and who knows what else, who goes to school on an empty stomach, who sees police brutality and all kinds of shit every day… how is that kid supposed to keep up? The cycle of poverty is directly responsible for kindergarteners with PTSD. Kindergarteners, Courf. With PTSD, because of the circumstances of their birth. Poverty is traumatic. It's wrong. It's so fucking wrong, because it's entirely preventable.”_

Combeferre is arguing the same points now, albeit with less swearing.

And he's doing it brilliantly.

He describes the research done before him, and how he structured his own experiment. He goes over the data, explaining several theories, and the variables involved.

Combeferre is brimming with knowledge and ideas, and he communicates them clearly and concisely.

He concludes with several concrete policy proposals, which Courfeyrac finds so convincing that he wants to go over to the committee and yell at them. _This is supposed to be your area of expertise. Yes, my boyfriend, hopefully soon to be my fiancé, is brilliant, but he's made all of this seem so clear, so blindingly obvious, why the hell didn't you people figure this out years ago?_

Combeferre looks extremely sheepish about the light applause that breaks out when he finishes his presentation.

And Courfeyrac is so in love.

“Breathe,” Enjolras quietly hisses next to him.

“I'm going to cry. And then go fight the so-called education system that completely disregards the needs of traumatized children. And then cry some more.”

Dr Young steps forward to act as moderator of the question and answer with the committee, and now Courfeyrac is nervous all over again, because he knows that this section is much harder to prepare for.

But of course Combeferre is killing it.

Two of the committee members seem to be using their time to ask questions to argue with each other about research methods, but Combeferre stays above the fray. He steers the discussion back to his own research, explaining (again) why he made the choices he did, and how his findings add to the field.

“Thank you, Combeferre.” Dr Young turns to the audience. “This concludes the public portion of this event. The committee will now meet to deliberate in private. If we could have the room, please.”

It is agonizing. They all shuffle out of the lecture hall, and Courfeyrac goes straight to Combeferre's side. As does everyone else.

Combeferre has monosyllabic responses to the congratulations and well-wishes being hurled in his general direction, and Courfeyrac grabs his hand and pulls him around a corner.

“You know you did great. I know you did great. Everyone out there wants to tell you that you did great, but I can see the self-critical wheels turning in your head, so unless you can convince me that you really, really want to go back over there and engage in a lot of awkward, frustrating small talk, I am going to help you hide over here for the incredibly brief period of time it will take for the committee to vote that your dissertation and your defense of it were both stunningly brilliant and deserve the highest honors they can bestow.”

“Thank you.”

That's all that either of them feel the need to say.

Courfeyrac hates awkward silences. But it's not awkward silence with Combeferre. Even when Combeferre isn't saying anything, Courfeyrac can almost hear his mind working.

Enjolras’ blond curls appear around the corner.

“I made them all go away, so you don't need to hide over here if you don't want to.”

Combeferre exhales. “Thank you.”

And then Enjolras’ phone begins to ring. He pulls it out, glances at it, taps the ignore call button, and slides it back into his pocket.

Silence descends, until Enjolras’ phone starts ringing again.

“Enjolras, just answer your damn phone,” Combeferre mutters. “I appreciate your dedication to this friendship, but your staff might resort to drastic measures if they don’t hear from you soon.”

With a sigh and an eye roll, Enjolras pulls his buzzing phone from his pocket and glances at the screen. “Holy shit.”

“What is it?” Courfeyrac asks.

“The House committee just scheduled the vote on AVR—it’s happening this afternoon.”

“The automatic voter registration bill? That’s amazing!”

“I know, but I—“

“Don’t even start,” Combeferre says firmly, taking Enjolras by the shoulders and maybe shaking him, a tiny little bit. “Do not torture yourself about prioritizing work over friendship right now. You were here for the important stuff, and I love you for it. Now get yourself back to your office, or to the Capitol, or wherever you need to be to save our democracy.”

Enjolras nods. “Okay then. That settles that.” He hugs Combeferre. “Good luck, not that you need it.”

“That’s exactly what I told him,” Courfeyrac says.

“And you,” Enjolras turns to Courfeyrac. “Don’t even think about it. I’ll see you guys tonight.”

Enjolras is gone before Courfeyrac can reply.

The lecture hall door opens and Dr Young steps out.

“We’re ready for you, Combeferre,” she says.

Combeferre turns to Courfeyrac, who presses a gentle kiss to his jaw.

“You've got this, babe.”

Combeferre leans his forehead against Courfeyrac’s for a moment.

He squares his shoulders and walks into the room.

As the door shuts, separating Combeferre from him, any semblance of control that Courfeyrac had over his nerves goes out the window.

He fidgets. He paces. His mind is racing, but at the same time, it's completely blank, and there is absolutely nothing he can do to support Combeferre except wait in this hallway, and he has never felt more useless in his entire life, and it's just the absolute worst.

It's no more than two and a half minutes, but Courfeyrac is convinced that they are the longest two and a half minutes in the history of the universe.

(He's sure that Combeferre knows enough about physics and relativity to explain why that would be impossible.)

The door opens agonizingly slowly, and Combeferre approaches him agonizingly slowly, but then it doesn't matter anymore because Combeferre has wrapped him up in a hug to end all hugs, and Courfeyrac really really wants to know what the committee said, but he knows that Combeferre will tell him. Soon. He hopes.

Combeferre pulls back just far enough to lock his gaze with Courfeyrac’s.

And then slowly, deliberately, that _tease_ , he nods once, and he smiles.

Combeferre’s smile is one of Courfeyrac's favorite things in the world, and Combeferre’s “it’s official, I just earned my Ph.D” smile might be his new absolute favorite.

Sometimes it just hits him, how much he loves Combeferre. This is one of those times.

He’ll have to remember to ask Joly if it's possible for a person’s sternum to be damaged by how hard their heart is beating, because Courfeyrac is somewhat concerned that his is going to jump right out of his chest.

There's pressure at the back of Courfeyrac's eyes, and he blinks, hard, because he will not cry right now. He pulls Combeferre to him again.

“I'm so proud of you,” he says softly.

Combeferre lets out a long, shaky breath, and Courfeyrac can feel the tension melt out of him.

“I couldn't have done this without you.” Combeferre murmurs into Courfeyrac's hair, pressing a kiss just above his ear.

Courfeyrac squeezes his eyes shut, letting those words sink in. He has never, not even for a moment, doubted Combeferre’s feelings for him, or the strength of their relationship. But he still loves it when Combeferre, who can be prone to reticence, says things like that.

“Yes you could’ve.”

Combeferre likes facts, which is one of the many, many things Courfeyrac loves about him.

His favorite of Combeferre’s facts is that Combeferre loves him.

“Okay, maybe, but I would have been miserable. And probably died of scurvy.”

Courfeyrac wants to laugh, to protest that Combeferre is exaggerating, but his body won't do it. So he squeezes Combeferre's hand.

“How would you like to celebrate, Doctor?”

“Not a--”

“Yes you are.”

“I don't have the diploma yet.”

Courfeyrac has never rolled his eyes harder in his life. “Oh for heaven’s sake. That is the most formal of formalities. You have successfully defended your dissertation. You are a Ph.D. Own it. Because it is so sexy.”

“Well in that case…” Combeferre pulls Courfeyrac flush against him, lining up their hips. “I'll be hanging a nameplate on our bedroom door.”

“Sounds good to me. But maybe some lunch first? I mean, I still have to make sure you don't die of scurvy.”

* * *

“Just a heads up that we’re throwing you a bit of a party at the Musain tonight,” Courfeyrac says as they sit down at their table at a cafe for lunch. “I didn't want to tell you before, because superstition, but I also didn't want it to be a full-on surprise when I drag you into the bar tonight.”

“I suppose I can live with that, although what I really want to do tonight is go straight to bed, preferably with you.”

It's a sunny day, comfortably warm, and Combeferre shrugs out of his suit jacket and unties his tie, pulling it out from under his sweatervest and shoving it in a pocket.

Courfeyrac has to bite his lip to keep from uttering an obscene whimper.

Combeferre's eyes flicker over Courfeyrac’s mouth, and he winks.

“You're so mean,” Courfeyrac mutters.

“Don't you have to go to work?” Combeferre surveys his menu.

A solid thirty seconds of increasingly hysterical laughter elapse before Courfeyrac manages an answer.

“First of all, I took a personal day. Secondly, among the benefits of working for an organization of which your best friend is the Executive Director is that he will threaten to fire you if you attempt to work on the day your boyfriend is defending his dissertation, even if it turns into a fairly big day for said organization.”

“Enjolras said he would fire you if you worked today?”

“Well, he doesn't actually have the authority to fire me; only the board can do that. But it's the spirit of the thing.”

Combeferre reaches across the table and squeezes Courfeyrac's hand.

“I'm really glad you're here, even if it's against your will. Thank you for being there today. And every day.”

“Please. As if I'd want to be anywhere else.” Courfeyrac tries to keep his tone light, but he has to blink back that pressure in his eyes again, and he gulps, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

The small box in his pocket, which cannot possibly weigh more than a few ounces, feels like it weighs a ton.

* * *

After a leisurely lunch, they head for the park that runs along the river. It's a great place to observe the local wildlife, both human and otherwise.

They're settled on a bench and Combeferre is approximately eight minutes into a spontaneous monologue about the bone structure of cormorants when Courfeyrac sighs happily and says, “I'm so glad you're back.”

Combeferre’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“You didn't have as many random interesting facts when you were writing the thing. I guess it took up a lot of that headspace. But you know how much of a slut I am for your random interesting facts.”

Combeferre blinks. Courfeyrac can see the wheels turning in his head.

“‘Cormorant’ is a contraction derived either directly from the Latin _corvus marinus_ , meaning ‘sea raven’ or through Brythonic Celtic. _Cormoran_ is the Cornish name of the sea giant in the tale of Jack the Giant Killer. In fact, ‘sea raven’ or analogous terms were the usual nomenclature for cormorants in Germanic languages until after the Middle Ages.”

“You're doing this on purpose.”

“Obviously.”

“You are _horrible._ ”

“You love it.”

“Yeah. I do.”

Courfeyrac leans his head on Combeferre’s shoulder. He could easily fall asleep like this.

“What time are you supposed to escort me to the bar for my not-surprise party?”

“Around six.”

“So we’ve got time then.”

“We’ve got plenty of time.”

* * *

That evening, Combeferre pretends to be surprised when two dozen friends and acquaintances greet him (loudly) in the back room of the Musain. He dutifully makes the rounds, graciously accepting congratulations.

After an hour, he tugs on his right earlobe, and Courfeyrac swoops in from across the room to rescue him from a (now former) classmate and suggest that it might be time to go home.

“Ugh, thank you,” Combeferre groans as soon as they're outside. “I'm so tired but I didn't want them all to think I'm not grateful for them. It's just that all I want to do right now is sleep.”

Courfeyrac takes Combeferre’s hand and weaves their fingers together.

“That's _all_ you want to do?” Courfeyrac may or may not be batting his eyelashes.

That exhaustion that Combeferre claims to be experiencing suddenly doesn't seem to bother him, as he yanks Courfeyrac to one side of the empty sidewalk, one hand landing possessively on his hip, the other carding through his curls before coming to rest on the side of his neck. His thumb gently traces the line of Courfeyrac’s jaw.

It would have been easy for Combeferre to lean in right away, but he doesn't. He holds Courfeyrac’s gaze.

Courfeyrac really should have known before they started dating that Combeferre’s patience and penchant for observation would make him a massive tease. But that turned out to be a very pleasant (if sometimes momentarily frustrating) discovery.

And oh man is it frustrating, in the most delicious way.

It's a promise. A promise that letting the anticipation build will make the eventual culmination that much more explosive. A promise that Combeferre is listening, making sure that they both know exactly what they want. That he refuses to let either of them rush when they could be savoring.

Combeferre is someone who savors.

He likes to eat slowly, to make sure he has the chance to enjoy all the flavors and textures. He reads slowly, because he likes to digest information.

He touches Courfeyrac the same way he touches his favorite books. There's an intimacy based on shared secrets, a language that only they understand.

The book is familiar. Courfeyrac knows Combeferre has it essentially memorized. No matter how many times people ask Combeferre how he can possibly read that book _again,_ because how can he find anything interesting in it that he hasn't found before, Combeferre will just smile and say that just because something is familiar and comfortable doesn't mean that it's boring, and no matter how many times he reads this book, he always finds something he'd forgotten about, or something he hadn't noticed the first thousand times he read it.

And Courfeyrac will just smile, because he knows Combeferre isn't just talking about a book.

Combeferre touches Courfeyrac slowly. Reverently.

Courfeyrac leans forward. He wants Combeferre so much, but the tease ducks his head.

Courfeyrac doesn't even try to hold back the whimper.

“Ferre…”

Combeferre places the first hint of a kiss low on Courfeyrac's neck, more on his shirt collar than his skin. Courfeyrac inhales sharply. Combeferre nuzzles him.

“You smell really good,” he murmurs against Courfeyrac's neck.

“It's Special Edition Lemongrass Shower Gel Season.” Courfeyrac has no idea how he managed to utter a full sentence.

“My favorite.” Combeferre whispers as he nibbles Courf’s earlobe.

“I know I am.”

“Damn right.”

Combeferre kisses Courfeyrac the same way he does everything--with complete focus and dedication.

Hours could have passed by. Maybe even years. Decades.

“Wow,” Courfeyrac says softly. “You should earn your Doctorate more often.”

Combeferre blushes. Courfeyrac loves that it's because of him.

“Come on,” Combeferre says, squeezing Courfeyrac’s hand. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

They don't even make it past the living room.

“I hate this shirt,” Courfeyrac mutters as he attacks Combeferre's buttons.

“What's wrong with it?” Combeferre asks, offended on behalf of the garment.

Courfeyrac plants a kiss on the increasing amount of Combeferre's skin he can access. “It's not on the floor yet.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

“I hope so.”

Courfeyrac has dedicated significant thought to the paradox that is his relationship with Combeferre.

They have known each other so well, for so long.

He should be bored.

But somehow, that familiarity is exciting rather than mundane.

Instead of wondering how good it can be, he knows exactly how good it is.

The things he does for Combeferre, he does because they're the right thing to do, or because he wants to, not because he feels pressure to impress him.

The fact that Combeferre knows just about everything there is to know about him, and not only accepts him exactly as he is, but loves him, treasures him, adores him…

After several years together, even the sex is supposed to get a little stale sometimes, right?

Ha. _Wrong._

Combeferre’s lips, his fingers, set off fireworks on Courfeyrac's skin. He arches into Combeferre's touch, pulling him as close as he can. It's still not close enough. It will never be close enough.

There's a reason people use _intimacy_ as a euphemism for sex.

* * *

“I meant what I said earlier. I couldn't have done this without you.”

They're cuddled on the couch.

Courfeyrac kisses Combeferre’s temple. “And I meant it when I said that yes you could've.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes, but he's got that fond smile on his face. “Okay, so I didn't mean it literally. But the point is that I can't imagine going through anything of this magnitude without you. Or even smaller scale things. Grocery shopping. I can't imagine going grocery shopping for just myself. And I wouldn't want to. Which reminds me, there's something I've been meaning to ask you.”

“About groceries?”

“That's one way of thinking about it.”

“...what does that mean? Do you want to go to Whole Foods more often? Because I know it's _technically_ closer, but you know how much I love Trader Joe’s, and every time I think about Whole Foods, I feel like I'm cheating on Trader Joe, and you know how I feel about that kind of infidelity.”

Combeferre is definitely leaning over to pick up something he's dropped on the floor. He's definitely not positioning himself on one knee in front of Courfeyrac, and he certainly doesn't have a ring in his hand. Absolutely not.

“Courfeyrac, will you marry me?”

“Oh my God, how did we go from my rambling about Trader Joe’s to you proposing? God _dammit_ , Ferre!”

Courfeyrac knows he has completely fucked up before the words are even all the way out.

Combeferre’s expression falls, and he puts down the ring and reaches for Courfeyrac’s hand.

“Ferre, that's not what I meant, I just…”

“Did I read this totally wrong? I mean, we've talked about getting married, and I know that lately I haven't been as focused on us as I would have liked, but--”

“Oh God, no, it's not that, Ferre. Not that at all. Are you kidding? Of _course_ I want to marry you, which is why I've been carrying _this_ around for the last month.” He reaches for his discarded trousers--how did they end up _under_ the couch?--and pulls the ring box out of the pocket, snapping it open to show Combeferre. “I knew you would hate something public and staged, so I wanted to just find the right moment and be spontaneous, but I didn't want to distract you from your work at such an important stage, and it turns out that being spontaneous is _really hard_.” He's outright whining by the time he's done.

Combeferre's jaw is slack, and he won't meet Courfeyrac’s eyes, and for the first time in his life, Courfeyrac can't tell what Combeferre is thinking, and it does not feel good. It feels very very bad.

“I'm so sorry Combeferre. You've just had this incredible professional milestone and you're doing this really wonderful romantic thing, and I'm ruining this lovely post-orgasm moment by getting upset and making it all about me.”

“Literally, the whole point of proposing to someone is that it's all about them.” Combeferre says quietly.

“But it shouldn't be. It should be about _us._ ”

Combeferre blinks.

Courfeyrac's stomach has dropped somewhere under the floorboards, and he is pretty sure he's never felt worse in his life. It was such a good day, and the man he wants to marry _has just proposed_ , and of course Courfeyrac has somehow found a way to screw it all up.

“So are you going to ask me?”

Courfeyrac's head snaps up, and he meets Combeferre's eyes, which are twinkling with a hint of mischief, and he's trying really hard to keep that one side of his mouth from curving into a smile.

“You haven't actually asked yet. And I'm sure you've practiced a speech that will make me cry, so let's have it.”

Courfeyrac gulps. “Okay.” Deep breath. “Okay.”

Dammit, he is going to get this right.

He shifts down onto one knee, so he and Combeferre are both kneeling, facing each other. He reaches for Combeferre’s hands.

“Do you remember Enjolras and Grantaire’s wedding?”

“Of course.”

“Obviously. I mean, do you remember my drunken babblings right after Enjolras and Grantaire’s wedding? About how their relationship just sort of happened, without them having to go looking for it? And how I whined that I still hadn't found my person, and I was lonely and jealous and kind of bitter, and also very, very drunk?”

“I remember. I remember feeling like my heart was breaking into a million pieces.”

“I know that now. And I'm so sorry. By that point, I knew I was in love with you, and I was trying so hard not to be, because I didn't want to let myself even dare to consider the possibility that you felt the same way. And I know now that I was so lonely and jealous and bitter because I was scared.”

He doesn't even remember all the things he wanted to say. He's just gazing into Combeferre’s eyes and talking.

This is how it's always been between them. Complete, open, vulnerable honesty.

(Except for that “I'm ridiculously in love with my best friend and he absolutely cannot find out” phase. That was less than pleasant, but Courfeyrac certainly hasn't been disappointed with what has followed.)

And he knows Combeferre is listening. It's one of the innumerable things he loves about Combeferre, that Combeferre _listens_.

“I was so scared that loving you the way I did--the way I _do_ \--would ruin our friendship. What I didn’t realize is that maybe our friendship needed to be ruined. Because these last few years that we’ve been together have been better than I could have imagined or asked for. This is a really good thing we’ve got going on, and I want to keep it going forever. I want to be with you forever. I want to raise children with you.”

With the rest of the world, Courfeyrac thinks about how he is perceived. And he cares, sometimes more than he knows he should. With Combeferre, he just _is_.

“All my life, I've had all these fantasies about living out this grand, dramatic love story. Flowers, and candlelit dinners, and locks on bridges, and all that… stuff. I thought that that would be what would make me happy. And those things are nice. But a series of grand, dramatic gestures isn't a relationship, it's a reality show.”

Combeferre squeezes his hand.

“The grand gestures… anyone can do that. Not to mention the fact that someone has to clean up all the rose petals that were scattered on the bed, which just sounds like a nightmare. It turns out that what makes me happy is lazy days at home, where we don't feel pressure to jabber on and on about nothing. And we don't find rotting flowers in the sheets on laundry day. I never thought that I would be happy with any amount of quiet, but I am. Because I'm happy with _you._ Because with you I feel content, and safe, and secure, and so, so loved.”

Combeferre is pulling a hand away, but only because he's wiping his eyes. And of course, that makes Courfeyrac cry as well.

“I used to think that those grand gestures were what made a relationship good, were what made a love worth having. But that's not true. There's no point unless you genuinely want to be with the other person. And those grand gestures aren't who you are. They aren't who _we_ are. I don't need a lock on a bridge to know that you love me, because I can see it and I can feel it. Every day. Every time you kiss me, every time you touch me, every time you look at me. And that means more than any grand gesture ever could.”

Ferre leans forward and rests his forehead against Courf’s, and Courfeyrac _loves this_. He loves the intimacy and vulnerability of it. He can feel Combeferre’s pulse beating through his own forehead. He can taste a hint of Combeferre's favorite honey-sweetened tea on his breath, inhale the scent of library dust and book bindings that seems to follow him around.

He takes a deep breath. There is so much he wants to say.

“I love you for so many reasons. All of the reasons. And for no reason at all. I have loved you for as long as I can remember, because I don't know how not to. You are so kind and considerate and gentle, but you also refuse to accept problematic nonsense from anyone. Love is an emotion, but it needs to be acted on in order for it to mean anything. Years ago, we chose each other, and I will keep choosing you every day you'll let me.”

Courfeyrac has never seen Combeferre this emotional. Not at any school graduation, or any of their friends’ weddings, not with anything in the news, or a documentary. Not even when Pluto was relegated to dwarf planet.

“So, this is going to be really anticlimactic, but, Combeferre, will you marry me? Please?”

Courfeyrac is used to the occasional gap in conversation now. Under other circumstances he might feel annoyed or hurt, but he knows that Combeferre tries to take the time to really understand what other people are saying, and formulate a thorough response, and that takes some time.

Combeferre swallows, and strokes Courf’s cheek.

“I am about to hug you so hard that we will both fall over.”

Almost before Courfeyrac can react, Combeferre makes good on his promise (or was it a threat?), launching himself at Courf. They land in a pile on the carpeted floor, Courfeyrac wiggling a little to get comfortable, and then gently reaching up to stroke Combeferre’s cheek.

“Is that a yes?”

Combeferre nods against Courfeyrac’s hand. “Of course it's a yes. And you? You haven't answered either.”

Courfeyrac doesn't even try to hide his grin. Why would he ever want to?

“Yes. A hundred times. A thousand times. Wholeheartedly and without a single doubt in my mind.”

“I love you so much.”

Combeferre isn't bubbly. He's very, very self-aware and in touch with his feelings, and has no difficulty talking about them, but he expresses them in a way that is different from Courfeyrac. Quieter.

So the constant stream of physical affection (Courfeyrac is so handsy, and he was delighted to discover that Combeferre is too), and the simple “I love you so much,” means more than a sonnet, more than hiring a sky writer, more than any of the dramatic big gestures Courfeyrac used to daydream about.

“Pinch me.”

“How about I kiss you instead?”

“I guess that works.”

“I'm sorry I ruined your plans, Courf.”

Courfeyrac pops up into a sitting position and takes Combeferre’s face in his hands.

“Two things. Listen very carefully.”

Combeferre nods.

“Number one, I didn't have any plans for you to ruin. That's the whole point of being spontaneous.”

Combeferre nods again.

“Second, please don't be sorry. Because I'm not. I _love_ the way it happened. I love _you_. That's the whole point of all of this: that we're getting married.”

Combeferre grins, and Courfeyrac can't resist planting a kiss on him.

“Ferre?”

“Mmm?”

“There will be an Elephant Love Medley flash mob at our wedding reception.”

Courfeyrac can feel the smile that Combeferre tries to hide in his curls.

“Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Title (as with Lifelong Love Letter) comes from "I Choose You" by Sara Bareilles, which will always be the most Courferre song ever.


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